Brother Qown later discovered it had been a perfect bull’s-eye.
Then all hell broke loose.
Both Count Janel and Sir Baramon stopped, turned, and gave Ninavis an incredulous look.
Ninavis shrugged at them even as she lowered the bow and gave the guard a smug smile. “You’re good here, huh?”
Janel’s expression suggested she was struggling not to laugh.
“Are you out of your mind? Why, I’m going to—” But galloping interrupted whatever punishment the guard had in mind.
The Black Knight rode over.
This Black Knight didn’t dress the fool, the way Sir Baramon had during the Mereina tournament. His ornate armor was embossed with scenes of ravens and screaming demons; he wore a black feather cloak. Still more feathers formed a crest that mimicked a horse’s mane over his helmet—a feather version of a laevos. His black horse wasn’t a fireblood, but still proved an impressive specimen.
Then the man removed his helmet, and Brother Qown saw the black went all the way down to the skin. His eyes were light green, but his skin and hair looked blacker than the raven feathers.
Brother Qown had grown so used to seeing Joratese parti-color flesh he didn’t understand what he was seeing for a moment. Then he noticed the man’s features weren’t Quuros. Any Quuros, from either side of the Dragonspires.
He was vané. A Manol vané, to be specific, and that idea so startled Brother Qown, he could only stare in shock.
What was a Manol vané doing in Jorat?5
“Who shot that arrow?” The vané leaped off his horse and stalked in their direction.
“Captain, I’m sorry. I didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to—”
But Captain Mithros paid him no attention. His gaze raked over the group, paused a second to linger on Janel’s face longer than anyone else’s, and stopped cold at their wine-stain marked archer.
Ninavis waved her fingers at him.
He grinned then, a wide stretch of white teeth breaking the ebony dark of his face.
“Can you do that while riding a horse?”
* * *
As it happened, Ninavis could.
The whole camp stopped their training to watch. The Red Spears captain, Mithros, set up a series of targets along a winding path so Ninavis would have to aim and fire even as she steered the horse he’d provided her.
Most importantly, Captain Mithros let the entire group inside the roped area to watch.
“Warning, ready, go!” Mithros waved a hand.
Ninavis urged her horse into a gallop.
Brother Qown hadn’t seen this demonstrated at the Mereina tournament, although he had to assume it could’ve been included among the games. And Ninavis wasn’t a native Joratese, but he couldn’t tell by the way she rode; her control of the horse seemed effortless. She began pulling arrows from her quiver and loosing them at the targets. She made the bull’s-eyes seem easy.
She rode past the end of the track, slowed, and turned the horse around to trot back to the group.
Applause filled the air. Metal changed between more than a few hands, proving yet again Joratese would take any excuse to wager, even on a complete unknown.6
Mithros laughed and then bowed as Ninavis dismounted. “I haven’t seen shooting like that since the last time I was home. Marry me, beautiful woman. Our children will save the world.”
Ninavis stared at him, blinking, looking more than a bit nonplussed as one of the Red Spears reclaimed his borrowed horse. She scowled and unstrung her bow. “You’re a bit young for my taste.7 Anyway, the count wants to talk to you.” She nodded in Janel’s direction. “If you’re so keen to have me fighting under your banner for the tournament, you’ll want to talk to her as well.”
The man didn’t seem much taken aback by her refusal, grinning all the wider. He didn’t so much as glance at the rest, not even at Janel. “But where did you learn to shoot like that?”
Ninavis narrowed her eyes. “My husband served in the army.”
His expression turned thoughtful. “Quuros archers must have improved their skills since the last time I visited their training camps.”
Janel walked over to Ninavis. “I cannot imagine Quuros training camps allowing a Manol vané to visit.”
Brother Qown blinked. He’d have sworn the count would have no idea what a Manol vané looked like. He chided himself. Father Zajhera had spent three years treating her. Of course she wasn’t ignorant.
For the first time, Janel caught Captain Mithros’s attention. “You’re assuming I ever ask permission—”
Count Janel crossed her arms over her chest and frowned at him.
“Mithros, you horny old ass, stop baiting the children and get yourself over here. You still owe me a hundred thrones from the last card game we played, and I mean to take it from your shiny black hair.” Dorna grinned and wrinkled her face. “Plus, we need to talk somewhere private.”
Mithros looked surprised. He tilted his head and stared at Dorna, then his eyes widened. “When did you become a woman?”
Dorna rolled her eyes. “Years ago, you clueless oaf. I told you I was visiting the Festival of the Turning—ack!”
Mithros ran over to Dorna, picked her up, and spun her around while giving her a hug. “I didn’t recognize you! What happened?”
“Put me down, you sod, before I kick you so hard you never ride a horse again. What happened? I just told you—”
“No, I don’t mean that. You’re old!”
“Oh, you big fool,” Dorna said, “it’s been thirty years. Humans grow old.”
Mithros took a step back, looking embarrassed. “So long as that? How the time passes.” He smiled at her, gentle and sad. That smile implied a closer relationship than friends. But in all the time he’d known Dorna, she’d consistently maintained her preference ran for mares and mares alone. Except …
Brother Qown leaned over to the count. “Uh … did I hear her correctly?”
Janel paused, distracted, and looked over at him. “What part?”
“Dorna used to be a man? How’s that possible?”
Janel blinked. “The Festival of the Turning Leaves. They hold it every year in Nivulmir, and Galava grants the supplicants’ prayers. It’s the reason Dorna wasn’t at Lonezh Canton.” She paused. “Do you do it differently in the west?”
Brother Qown blinked. “No! No, we don’t do it at all. Ever.”
Janel frowned. “Really? That’s odd.”
Sir Baramon cleared his throat and gave the Manol vané a half bow. “Sir Baramon, Captain. We met four years ago, at the tournament here in Atrine.”
“Ah yes! Good to see you again. Where’s your charming—” He paused while clasping Sir Baramon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. Was it recent?”
Sir Baramon nodded. “But thank you.”
“Of course. It never stops hurting, to lose the ones we love.” They shared a look.
Captain Mithros squeezed the man’s arm once before letting go. “All right, everyone. Back to practice!” he bellowed, waving a hand at the archers. He then motioned for the entire group to follow him. “All right, you lot. You’ve convinced me. We do need to talk somewhere more private.” He began heading toward the temple, his long strides forcing everyone into a trot to keep up.